


How to Overcome Writer's Block: A Guide by Merlin Emrys

by anivhee



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Crack, Explicit Language, First Time, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Memories, Reincarnation, True Love's Kiss, Violence, writer!Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:57:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anivhee/pseuds/anivhee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin Emrys is a young, promising author who has found success on a series of novels about—ironically—his namesake and his King. When a curse known as “writer’s block” decides to attack, will a knight in shining armour help Merlin get his powers back?</p><p>Or, that time Merlin had a terrible block that had him cursing days, running away from Rottweilers, googling how to write poems and being struck by strangers, only to be rescued by someone who can make his life just a little worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Curse

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea of what happened here. I deeply apologize to prompter for taking your prompt and do THIS D: 
> 
> Written for prompt #30 at Merlin Muses.

Merlin hated Tuesdays.

One would think that, after getting an amazing response for a crazy idea he got one lunchtime, life would be better, but it wasn’t. Not even when he saw his book at every bookstore or library that he walked into. Not even after the other two joined the first. Not even when he could read about them in the papers or online, or when people on TV made ridiculous comments about them. Because yes, he’d had a fair time, his books were “a new version of an inspiring story about two characters we have all grown to love since we were in nappies” and yes, he was incredibly rich and happy with his life.

Still, Tuesdays were a different matter.

It wasn’t like something had happened on a Tuesday when he was younger or anything like that. He just had a routine he couldn’t shake himself of, and no matter how hard he tried, it always happened: every Tuesday Merlin would wake up _extremely_ early with a headache that he couldn’t cure, thanks to the dreams that always tormented him Monday nights—so maybe the fault is Monday’s, not Tuesday’s. But anyhow, afterwards he can’t go back to bed because he just _can't_ look at those big, golden reptile eyes that are the size of his head, he has to make tea to stay awake, and that tea _always_ has to have something wrong with it. There would be times when it would be too sweet, or too bitter, or too hot, or too cold—like that time he tried to turn on his stove and nothing happened because _of course_ it wouldn’t work that day, and since he was sleepy as hell, he supposed that heating it up with his mind would work, but he burned his eyelashes—he still doesn’t know how—and that was _not_ funny, no matter what Will still claims. He has tried changing tactics, going for coffee instead of tea, but the outcome it’s the same. Once he tried drinking just plain milk but it turned out to be foul.

After his horrible morning, Merlin would have to attend a meeting with his team from hell—that is, the three witches and the plain evil dork, also known as Morgana, Morgause, Nimueh and that kid Mordred. Merlin still doesn’t understand how the hell he ended up with them, but turns it out that, as crazy and horrible as they may be, they come up with great things that made the publishing and distributing of his books a very easy going thing. In all fairness, he has to see them every two days, so Tuesdays are not the only days that he has to endure the “this chapter is too gay, don’t you think?” “well, they _are_ gay, Morgana” “hmm, you think, Morgause? I thought we were just writing homoerotics, not actual homo action here” “they’re not even doing anything! And also, _we_?!” things.

If he thinks about it hard enough—which he doesn’t, because that’s just a waste of time—he knows he owes it to Nimueh that his book got published in the first place. He had been fairly nervous when he met her—an awkward boy just coming out of adolescence, like Mordred—with an idea that was both revolutionary and very crazy. He had been completely sure that he was going to get rejected, but Nimueh must have seen something in him, because she had said she would read it and get back to him (which he totally counted as a rejection at the time). Two days later, when he was moping on Will’s couch about being stupid and not going to Uni like normal people do, his phone rang, and his life changed completely.

Maybe he shouldn’t be so bitter about meeting them on Tuesdays, because all in all, he really loves them and their crazy traditions (like that time he got there earlier than usual and found them chanting something while circling around a big stone that had something on that he really didn’t want to think about). Though sometimes it seemed like Tuesday was the worst day for them too, because they turned into _beasts_. Horrible, cruel and destroying beasts. They could tear him to pieces by the moment he gets there, accusing him of things he didn’t do and spitting curses at his work and its consequences (which, I’m sorry, but it’s making them lot of money, so what the hell is their problem?), and overall, having a horrible mood for the entire thing. Again, he tried changing tactics and suggested having the meeting on Wednesdays, but he was stupid enough to do that on a Tuesday, which just led to chaos and maybe him crying in the loo.

Granted, he only had to see them after finishing a book, so it wasn't like he had to go through them _every_ Tuesday, but still.

And if that wasn’t enough, every single Tuesday Lance and Gwen came around, all happy smiles and joined by the hip—and Merlin really had to get over Lance because it’s been, let's say, ten years possibly since he met him at secondary school and fell absolutely and crazily in love with him, only to introduce him to his best friend so that she could know who he drooled all over for, and end up making the heavens weep because _destiny had been sealed_ , like his stupid school counselor used to say. Suffice to say, Gwen felt so terribly guilty about it that she tried setting him up with Lance’s friends (well, the ones Lance said he felt checking him out, but who the hell wouldn’t? The man is perfect) and after a lot of awkward dates and weird relationships, and after a lot of begging on Merlin’s part to Gwen to _just stop it please_ , she still does so. And yes, on Tuesdays.

He has tried every lie in the book—sick, feeling off, tired, busy, work, work, work—but it never works. She’s a cunning little bitch, because every time Merlin gave an excuse she would turn to Lance, who would turn to Merlin, and that was playing very dirty. He hated it, the power the man held over him, because he didn’t even _try_ , he just needed to say “Please, Merlin. Percy is a great guy” and Merlin would be off the door in two minutes. He also knew Lance felt a little guilty, and Merlin knew that he didn’t manipulate him on purpose, the asshole. He was so nice and so handsome and so selfless and so _human_... and he really had to stop.

So of course the next part of the business is the awkward date, in which he absolutely and resolutely fucks things up. Let’s take this Percy fellow for example—very tall, very muscled, very handsome, and with a very nice personality. The date starts off well; they either go to the movies—which Merlin avoids since that time he accidentally grabbed the guy’s crotch instead of the popcorn tub and instead of being a nice, flirty move, he happened to grab it _really_ tight, which just caused the man to scream and made everyone hate them; they were told off and the guy didn’t even look at him, storming off, limping with dignity—or they go to a fancy restaurant, which was the choice in this case. They sit down (if Merlin doesn’t trip), they share looks over the menu (if Merlin doesn’t say something stupid first), they give their order (if the waiter doesn’t recognize Merlin from the awkward little picture he has at the end of his books, and goes all, “Oh my God, I _love_ your books! The chemistry between Arthur and Merlin is so great! Oh, God, can I ask you questions? Can I take pictures? Can I, Can I,” and the poor girl or boy ends up being told off by their superiors, because that’s not the way a waiter behaves and there’s a code of conduct, and Merlin wonders why the hell do they have to scold the poor things in front of them) and then they wait. And this is the part where they are supposed to talk. Which Merlin is terrible at because he’s a writer, so his head is full of ramblings that don't make sense; he fumbles with his words because the ideas are too twisted, and the man in question sometimes asks about his books (like Percy did), which is something he hates because even though he loves his books in a way a father loves his son, it’s terrible talking material on a date—pretty much because he starts rambling about them and he _can’t for the love of God stop_. When Merlin went out with Percy, he thought it was going to work because all of the things listed above (except maybe the book talk) didn’t happen. But then their order arrived, and things went downhill.

Sure, Merlin had met people who didn't agree with being a vegan, and constantly attacked him because of it (why, he had no idea). This Percy fellow had seemed nice enough, and Merlin hadn't thought someone this nice could have a problem with something like that, but he did. And boy, he _did_.

It was a ridiculous argument that grew into something terrible. Percy had even said that he might be anorexic because of it, which made Merlin laugh out loud and argue that he might be skinny, and might be awkward, but at least he wasn’t self-conscious enough to swallow fucking steroids to feel better about himself. Which was a big mistake, because Merlin waited for a response, another blow, but Percy had had enough. And the look on his face was terrible—the hurt in his eyes was unbearable, and made Merlin feel like a horrible person. Maybe Percy had been trying to make a point in a concerned way, and Merlin, like the idiot he is, attacked like a creature backed into a corner. But he came to that conclusion later, after Percy stormed out and left him to pay the bill. He went home and cried out of anger, took his laptop and wrote a damn good scene that people still talk about and write things off online.

Sometimes he wished he could just write his life like his novels and live the adventures Merlin and Arthur have in his books: a twisted dystopian series about a modern Arthur and Merlin dealing with magical creatures in the apocalypse, while still figuring out their dreams about their past lives together, and the turmoil that all creates. It sounded better in his head when he came to it, but Nimueh loved it nonetheless. She said the idea of a decayed world with a King that people want to kill is no new thing, but to say that that King was _the_ King Arthur from the Arthurian legends was a nice twist, and to bring Merlin along made the whole thing “magical”. She said it would appeal to the young adult demographic to have a story like that, especially since Merlin and Arthur are around the same age, and not like in the original Arthurian legends, in which Merlin is older (which Merlin knows. Of course he knows. You don’t grow up with _Merlin_ as a name and not expect to be surrounded by Arthurian legends at every corner). She also said that she _loved_ the chemistry between them, and that _that_ would sell as if it were food for African children (which caused Merlin’s insides to twitch; he wasn’t really fond of that expression, but she usually used it when she found something worthy, apparently). She said that the flashbacks to their other lives were fascinating and so very _real_ , and that she’d be just plain stupid if she didn’t take this. Then she eyed him in a way that made him incredibly uncomfortable.

“And your name is Merlin,” she’d said, something in her eyes sparkling.

“I know,” he’d replied. “I know it’s ridiculous for someone called Merlin to write a story about _Merlin_ , but I’ve been surrounded by the legends my entire life. It’s just something I can’t explain, it’s everywhere.” He blushed because maybe that bit wasn’t necessary. Nimueh smiled, her teeth showing, and something about the whole thing seemed oddly familiar, which was weird because they’ve never met before, and yet that's how it felt. 

But it was true—what he said to her, that is. He remembers being younger and asking his mother why on earth would she call him Merlin, which was not only a very odd name but it was the name of a _legend_. Every kid knows about Merlin and Arthur, that is for sure, and in their house it was something very special. His father, Balinor, was a huge fanatic (which probably explains the _why_ , but still), telling him stories since he was little about this magnificent King who ruled Albion with his heart, and his loyal sorcerer, who possessed more power than any army who dared touch his King. Merlin had listened, fascinated, about his namesake, and wondered if he could ever be as huge and powerful without it going to his head. That seemed to be what awed Merlin more, that this other Merlin was so much, and yet he didn’t feel like it, giving more credit to his King. His father never told him this, but somehow he just _knew_ it was like that. It happened often, especially when he was writing—there were moments when he found himself in a particular scene, normally a past one, not the future, and saw, felt and could almost _taste_ everything surrounding him. It was sickening sometimes, because it was almost as if _he_ was _that_ Merlin, which was just ridiculous, because a) he wasn’t a sorcerer, b) the Merlin he was writing was way younger than the _actual_ Merlin had been, and c) it was just _ridiculous_! There was no way on earth he could’ve ever _been_ such a powerful sorcerer. A legend!

No, not him.

“Well, you must understand then,” Nimueh had said back then, when they were about to settle their contract and Merlin’s mind was everywhere but _there_ because how could it be happening? “That this story has a lot of potential, Mr. Emrys, so I will have to ask you to use a pen name, since a story about Arthur and Merlin written by someone called _Merlin_ would probably look like a joke, and we don’t really want to look like a company that publishes _jokes_.” Which seemed a little odd considering the grin in her face as she said that. “Have you thought about this?”

“Yes,” he’d replied, swallowing hard. “But I don’t want a pen name—at least, not one that is completely different from my name. Can’t it be just _“M. Emrys”_? They don’t have to know my name precisely.” He stuttered the words and played with his hands nervously when Nimueh didn’t answer, just looked at him with a sort of wicked fondness. It was really weird.

And so it had been. He was known to the world as “M”, or called "Emrys" by some of his fans, which was okay (but it made him feel weird when he found a website basically worshipping him and calling him “immortal” because apparently that’s what his surname stands for). The picture at the back of the book hadn’t been there at first, but after a few reprints, Morgause suggested they should add it, which had caused him to almost faint because one thing he liked about writing was the sort of anonymity it gave him. But that wasn’t going to last long, according to Morgause, since the books were leaving the bookshelves like they were on fire. Mordred had done some internet research and found out that there were even more ebook downloads (which led them to transform the book into that format as well, making Merlin feel nauseated with the frenzy) and after a raging fit between Nimueh and some important people, she realized she couldn’t take the illegal downloads down, no matter how much they tried. They went for audiobooks after that, and Merlin just couldn’t listen to what they had to say anymore, because everything was too much and he felt like his story wasn’t big enough nor good enough to get that much acknowledgement.

It took time to get used to it, really. But now, instead of enjoying the fame and the money like a normal person would do (apparently), he found himself on a Tuesday.

A fucking damn _Tuesday_.

And of course, because this is his life and he _can’t_ write it as he wished, he found himself sitting in front of his laptop, (disgusting) tea in hand, and wishing he could just kill himself in that right instant.

The cursor was mocking him as it appeared and disappeared over the blank page.

This was not happening.

He couldn’t have writers block on a damn Tuesday!

He slammed his face against the desk repeatedly. This couldn’t happen to him _now_!

Not when he has his deadline just around the corner, the pressure building up in every corner of his being. He ran his hands through his hair and pulled at it, mad.

It wasn’t only that he was blocked, because it had happened before. It wasn’t even the fact that he had to check in with Nimueh and Gaius and submit the damn finished thing; the thing that was making him angrier, that was making him grab at his hair with more anxiety was that that day was fucking _Tuesday_.

He was well on the way to hysterical laughter by now, feeling ridiculous about the dread sensation that was taking over his body. He felt as though the fact that it was a Tuesday would suddenly curse him and he’d never get his inspiration back. Which was ridiculous, because he _always_ gets his inspiration back. Which is why he went back to headdesking, closing his eyes and trying to imagine _anything_ at all, coming up blank.

Merlin chewed at his bottom lip as if it were the only thing his body could possibly do, and almost cried out of frustration.

He got up from the chair and paced around his flat, his hands shaking and his heart mad, just like his head. He tried to think of a scene, a single scene that could give him _something_ to hold on to, and to develop, and to possibly maybe make a fucking book out of. He groaned, kicking at the air and letting himself fall down into the couch. There, he covered his face with his hands and did _not_ cry at all.

Now, this wasn’t just about _him_ , though, or the consequences this stupid writer’s block would probably lead to, but the thing was that a stupid little part of himself had started feeling guilty about his characters—how could he just abandon them like that? He had grown to love them, despite the odd casualties that surrounded them and possibly tied in with his childhood memories. He suddenly thought of his dad and how disappointed he would be if he’d known Merlin was just throwing away the characters of Arthur and Merlin, and felt ridiculous about his mind process. 

He resolved into calming down, maybe go for a walk, turn off his phone, and possibly later, ideas would come. Yes, that seemed like a good plan.

*

That was definitely not a good plan.

He was not only chased down by a dog—and not just _any_ dog, mind you, but a fucking Rottweiler—but he almost got hit by a bus, got hit by a kid in a bicycle (which somehow scratched of all his left shin), cursed at the boy and then got yelled at by the kid’s grandma—without adding the part regarding Merlin torn trousers, but no one has to know about that. No. He also had no magic solution to the goddamned writer’s block.

He dragged his feet to the shower and let the water fall over him with his clothes still on, wishing some sort of solution could come to his aid.

*

He sat down in front of his computer fresh Wednesday morning with (good) tea in hand, rolled up sleeves and bloodshot eyes. He stared at the screen with ferocity, a silly mantra rolling around his head (“I can do this, I can do this”), waiting until it boosted up and opened the blank document again. Merlin had to admit, the damn bastard was putting up a fight, as the cursor blinked and blinked _and blinked_.

“Dammit! I can’t do this!” Merlin shouted, standing up and glaring at the device. He considered sputtering some other significantly hurtful things its way but he knew they wouldn’t work, so he sat back down and resumed to staring. Again.

“Think, Merlin, come on,” he urged himself, as he pretended to see Arthur running down a hill, Merlin in tow, running after him. That should be something he could possibly work with, shouldn’t it? He placed his fingers over the keyboard and bit his lip, concentrated on doing this right. Wherever the scene would go to.

He started typing it, though, but he was lamely just writing that—“Arthur was running down the hill, Merlin in tow desperate to catch him”—okay, desperate. Merlin stared at the word and wondered why on earth would Merlin be desperately chasing Arthur down a hill. He groaned a little, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. This wasn’t good. Not even random ideas were working.

He let himself wallow in his misery again, thinking about deadlines and throats being sliced—his, for instance—and fans aggravated, and his characters, his babies, abandoned. Him, being a failure that could never live up to stupid expectations, no matter the money or the recognition, because the world was always going to ask more and more out of him, and if he didn’t live up to that, then he wouldn’t get a thing.

And Merlin was scared. Not much because of being nothing, but because he didn’t want people to forget about Arthur and Merlin, who, as fictional as they might be, inspire and move people in ways he could never imagine possible. To shut that down, to close that route of escape that a lot of people found in his books, hell, escapes _he_ found while he’s writing, would be unthinkable.

He started chewing his lip again, staring at the screen with something akin to pleading shining through his eyes.

He knew it was too soon to fret this much—it wasn’t like it had been three days, or a week, or a month—but he couldn’t shake the weight of failure that ghosted over his body, trying to bring him down. He couldn’t write in this state. He couldn’t write at all, and that was making him sick.

*

“Okay, you damn thing,” he said Thursday morning, wearing a pink head band that he still doesn’t know where he got from, making his hair stick out everywhere, with a coffee set up beside the computer. “We have to do this, whether you want it or not,” and he didn’t want to think about the fact that he was talking to _his computer_ , so he just resumed glaring.

He opened the empty document again and frowned.

And stared.

And stared.

And—

“God!” he shouted, standing up and walking around the coffee table where his laptop was resting. This was unbelievable. This couldn’t be happening to him. He resisted the urge to bang his head against the wall and bit his thumbnail, chewing at it and almost forgetting about how he wasn’t supposed to bite his finger too. 

He let himself fall in the chair and placed his elbows beside each side of his laptop, his hands reaching instinctively for his head and rubbing at his temples. He groaned, sighed and groaned a bit more, angry with the situation and angry at himself. He opened a new tab and googled “writer’s block”, coming up with several pages talking about what the term meant and how to overcome it. He clicked on one of those and in his irritation, he only skimmed through, searching for a word or something that could somehow fix him.

He was about to close the page when he read the word “music”.

And well, Merlin was familiar with writing with music, had done it a few times in the past, and scolded himself for not thinking about it earlier. He opened another tab and searched for “inspirational music”. He found a few he hadn’t heard before and decided to click play. He sat back, closed his eyes and tried to imagine something to go with the tunes that were slowly coming to life.

And of course nothing happened.

He changed scenarios, the music still playing, and went to sit down on the couch. Then he went lay down in the floor. He found himself twisting on the ground to find the right spot and crawled back to his chair, cursing the music and tuning it off completely.

He sat back on the floor, silence filling the room in a very creepy way, and Merlin stared into nothingness, attempting to erase the past ten minutes of his life somehow.

He fell backwards and looked at the ceiling. He drew some patterns in the air and didn’t even notice the sensation of sleep taking him over.

*

He woke up depressed on Friday morning, and didn’t touch his laptop at all the whole day, deciding instead to be a masochist and go to meet Lance, because despite his stupid crush on him, the guy was still his best friend and he really really wanted to talk (drink).

It was sad at first, when he called him and Lance said, “Are you crazy? It’s 10 in the morning! Who drinks at this hour?!” and Merlin knew of people who drink at that hour, there are a lot of alcoholic people in the world, and he was about to tell him that—not to mention that quote he heard somewhere about drinking at 5pm and how there’s always a place in the world where it’s 5pm—when Lance continued with, “Are you okay, though? Why do you want to drink now?”

Then Merlin babbled about his stupidity and how horrible it is to be alive when he’s not talented and he started crying at some point, because Lance said something like “It’s okay, don’t worry,” and then “I’ll be right there”. Fifteen minutes later there was a knock on the door and Merlin was being held inside strong, impossibly perfect, and impossibly platonic arms that were never going to be his. He cried a bit more, feeling pathetic.

Lance, ever the gentleman, held him tight and heard him out.

“What happened?” he said a bit later, when Merlin had controlled his hysterical weeping and his unnecessary clinging. Lance didn’t appear to be bothered, he just took him to the couch and sat down with him.

Merlin sniffed and tried to find the appropriate words to explain his dilemma.

“You know how there’s always something in the world that you’re confident you are good at? Even if you think you’re rubbish, there’s most certainly something that you know you’re not crappy at.” Lance was frowning deeply now. “I’ve always felt that way with writing. It isn’t even something that you have to acknowledge, it just _is_. I don’t know how to explain it,” he was looking at his hands, avoiding the gaze of the man beside him, and cursing himself for sounding so weird. “I just—I’ve always loved telling stories. I find myself immersed in my own stories, sometimes even believing they could be true. Does that sound too crazy?”

“No,” Lance smiled, soft. “You’ve always been special, Merlin. You have a gift, it’s natural that you feel like you’re one with it.”

“Well, yes.” Merlin mused under his breath, trying desperately not to blush so much and look like a girl because goddammit, he’s a guy. “Maybe I’m overreacting, I don’t know. I just wish I could make it stop. I don’t like feeling like this.”

“I know.” Lance patted him on the shoulder. “You do look like you could use a drink. Do you have any beer?”

Merlin smiled.

*

There was an amazing feeling on Saturday that had made Merlin happy. He grabbed his computer, and, thinking about changing scenarios, he went to the roof. He was feeling rather good, despite the quantities of alcohol his body had imbibed the day before, and was thrumming with energy, already plotting out something that could possibly break his block.

He positioned himself in a far corner, where the sun didn’t hit him completely and he could be comfortable. He left the computer on the ground and stood up, stretching his body and humming a pop song that had been on a TV Show he watched with Lance once. He started dancing around, happy for some odd reason, and then told himself it was enough and went to sit down beside his beloved laptop.

The document was already waiting for him, but now Merlin had a plan. It might not be an idea per se, but it sure as hell could work.

Morgana would be furious, but oh well, lately he’d been picturing her as the perfect villain, so she’d have to save it.

He grinned stupidly and placed his hands over the keyboard, feeling it, sensing it, becoming one with it, and as he tapped the caps lock key, his phone rang.

There was a short moment in which Merlin remained in his place, his hands frozen over the keys that he was about to press, and then the mobile’s volume increased, breaking him out of his stupor and making him grab it, not really paying attention to who was calling.

“Hello?” he said, and damn if the idea decided to escape. “Who is it?”

“How dare you ask who it is!” a voice—a very familiar voice, answered. “I knew this day would come but I can’t believe you actually forgot to call your father about his birthday!”

“Mum, it’s 11am.” Merlin replied, knowing he was doomed—it wasn’t like Hunith to just say hi and hang up. This kept going for a long while and Merlin wanted to cry at the irony. He had been dying because he couldn’t come up with ideas, and now that he had the very outline of one, of course this would happen. “Did it occur to you that maybe I was going to talk to you later?”

Bad idea. Very, very bad idea. Hunith spent the next seven minutes scolding him for being such an ungrateful child and Merlin just sat there, listening, cursing himself for not being able to multitask or have enough cynicism to just leave the phone at the side with his mother ranting. He watched as the screen went black and he tried not to associated it with his life.

*

The entire Sunday was devoted to Gwen, since she needed a friend (slave) that could go shopping with her. One of Gwen’s close friends, Elena, was marrying Gwaine, a handsome bloke that had proved to be both fun and loyal. They made a beautiful couple, and Merlin had met them enough times to consider them his friends already, so he was glad to go with Gwen, even if a tiny bit of him was uncomfortable with the whole thing.

It wasn’t only the dresses, or the perfumes, or the shoes, or the _pink_ , or that there wasn’t any men in any shop they went into, and Merlin was used to Gwen talking about Lance. Really. He got over the fact that he wasn’t going to be his, ever, and even if it still hurt a little, he really had no problem with Gwen talking.

Maybe it had a little bit to do with the fact that he’d never really had the chance to talk back to her. It wasn’t like Merlin had never had a boyfriend or anything, he’d had his fair share every now and then, but there had never been anyone that made it worth telling. Merlin scowled, there was no need for him to bring this now to the ceremony. He had enough problems as it was, and he just knew Nimueh was going to call soon. That was something he should be worrying more about, not his lack of a love life.

“Are you okay?” Gwen, bless her, had been extremely nice regarding his writing problem, taking him to buy sweets and coffee after the exhausting shopping-spree. “You’re still worried about your book? Don’t be, Merlin, I’m sure everything will work out in the end,” she smiled, taking a sip of her coffee and looking majestic about it somehow. Merlin would never understand how after the day they’d had the Victorian fair at their school he couldn’t see her as anything but the Queen—gorgeous, regal and loving. He didn’t think he’d ever tell her, though.

“You shouldn’t be so bothered about it. Take it as a vacation! I’m sure you’ll be good without stressing over it for a while.”

“It’s not like that, Gwen. I have a deadline,” he said, tired. He took a sip of his cappuccino and sighed.

“Then can’t you talk with your editor or something?”

“I guess I could, but I don’t really want to die so young,” Merlin tried to smile, to lighten up the mood, but he knew he couldn’t even if he wanted to. “I really don’t know what to do, Gwen. I’m beginning to worry about my creativity at all. I can’t hold a single idea, I can’t _create_ anything! And on top of all, this is making me sick. Like, literally sick. I think I’m going to go home and die from unproductivity.”

“Hush, you overreacting thing, and eat more sugar.” Gwen handed him a chocolate. “Don’t they say that chocolate is good for your brain? That it feeds it or something?” she brushed the fringe out of his eyes. “Is it working?”

“No.”

“Well, give it a moment.”

“It’s not working, Gwen.”

They stared at each other for a moment, both expressionless, and then Gwen’s shoulders fell.

“You know you’re the one that brings you down, right? You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.” 

“That doesn’t have anything to do with it,” he retorted, feeling like a scolded child.

“Don’t you pout at me, mister. Try to be happier! Nothing bad will happen if you don’t finish it this week.”

“I’ll only have more work piled up for when the deadline comes,” he ducked his head and smiled, but it seemed to hold more pain than pleasure. “No, thanks.”

Gwen sighed, taking both of his hands in hers and giving them a squeeze.

“Just know that it’s okay to relax every now and then. Why don’t you take the day off tomorrow? Come with Lance and me to the park or something. It will be fun,” she smiled brightly and there was absolutely no doubt that this wasn’t going to help Merlin at all.

*

There should be a rule by which it’s acceptable to reject an invitation to go out with a couple, not only because of the awkwardness of the situation, but also because it’s such a ridiculous waste of time.

Merlin was thinking about this when Lance’s face popped into his frame of vision.

“How are you feeling, man? Better?” He patted his shoulder, like he had done two days before, and Merlin didn’t really _lean_ into the touch or anything. “There’s this new film Gwen told me about,” he murmured as Gwen looked at the display window of a bookstore. “I’ve been told that clearing your mind helps with writing,” he was rather close. The bastard. “So, what do you say we go watch it?”

Merlin cringed involuntarily. He really didn’t fancy going through two hours locked in a cinema with the most besotted people in the entire world.

“I think I’ll pass,” he smiled, despite himself. “You two go, I’ll go home and hopefully I’ll get inspired in the way.”

“If you’re uncomfortable with us, don’t worry, we can—“

“No, it’s okay!” Merlin said too eagerly, flinching away from his friend and waving his hand too enthusiastically. “You deserve some time off,” it’s not like they didn’t spend the entire time glued together, he thought sarcastically. “I’ll be fine.”

Gwen was frowning when he ran away, but he didn’t care.

Merlin went for the train, still going with the “changing scenarios” mentality, and looked in his bag for some pen and paper to see if something might strike him while he traveled. He unfolded an old McDonald’s bag he found there for some reason and managed to get a pencil out from the depths of his belongings. He established himself comfortably on the seat and looked through the window, too immersed to notice when a pair of girls joined him in the wagon. 

He heard whispers and didn’t pay it much attention until there was a tap on his shoulder and he was met with two pairs of shining brown eyes, one framed with glasses.

“Are you _M_ Emrys?” the girl with the glasses asked, smiling so much Merlin actually thought her face would break.

“Um, yes,” he answered, looking from one to the other.

“Oh, my God!” the other girl shrieked and then covered her mouth. “Oh, God, sorry. I just—oh God, you have no idea of how much you inspire me, I can’t believe I’m talking to you right now—I can’t believe I’m _embarrassing_ myself in front of you right now, oh God why can’t I just shut—“

“It’s okay,” he cut her gently, as her friend placed a hand on her arm to try and calm her down. Merlin wasn’t going to dwell on the fact that she said he _inspired_ her because no, he’s not going to let it get into his head, and also _no_ , because he’s not even a good writer, dear God. “Do you write, then?” he smiled, in a way he hoped didn’t look too scary, and the girl in question blushed.

“I’ll never be as good as you,” was her answer, looking away. Merlin felt a tug at his chest at that.

“Don’t say that,” he straightened himself and searched for her eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Freya,” she mumbled.

Merlin felt another tug at his chest, stronger than the other, and smiled without thinking.

“That’s a beautiful name,” Freya blushed even harder and held her friend’s hand. “What’s yours?” she asked the girl with the eyeglasses.

“Mithian.”

Merlin’s smile grew wider, and he felt extremely happy for some reason.

“We’re university students,” Mithian continued, screwing up her courage with the help of her friend’s hand. “We’re both freshers, and we bonded over your books. They have a very special place in our hearts, Mr. Emrys,” she said, as if it was something natural, and wasn’t making Merlin’s insides wobble. There was something familiar about her, though. Something striking, like Gwen. “I can’t really explain what they make me feel,” she broke eye contact with him and bit her lip. “It’s like it’s a part of me, and wow, I’m sounding weird now,” she laughed; it was a very beautiful laugh, he noticed.

“It’s fine,” he was smiling too much, but he couldn’t help it. He moved to the corner of the bench and patted the empty space beside him. “Please, join me.”

Both girls looked at each other in a mixture of excitement and fear, but did as he said, Freya’s thigh brushing his as she sat down beside him. It made him feel weird, like a rush of energy running through him. He looked into her eyes and made her blush again, apologizing softly and asking her about her writing.

“It really isn’t that good,” she repeated, taking hold of Mithian’s hand again and the base of her backpack. Merlin couldn’t help but notice how petite she was, how the color on her cheeks made her look so young, and he felt an odd feeling of protection surging through him.

“Please don’t say that,” he repeated too, smiling softly. “I know we tend to do that, think we aren’t worth reading, or that what we write is rubbish and it doesn’t even make sense,” she nodded, the tip of her nose coloring with a soft shade of pink. “I’ve gone through that a lot. I doubted too much about publishing my works, and I’m not lying—if you sit back and really think about it, the premise sounds too mental, don’t you think?” he gave them a cheeky grin, and they smiled back, a nice energy floating around them.

“Well, I wasn’t sure anyone would read it, let alone like it, and I doubted. A lot.” He looked away, remembering those days and how he had felt, how insecure and scared he was, and how he had been feeling that whole week with his writer’s block situation. His ideas mattered in the long run, people liked what they read and bought his books, recommended them even. His dream had come true, and it was something crazy to just sit back and _look_ at everything he had accomplished because he _dared_ ; he took the risk and went to Nimueh’s office. He pushed back all of his fears and his doubts and just _did_ it, just went for it. 

These books were no longer about him. They had a weight on their own.

“It’s normal to feel insecure,” he continued, returning his gaze to the two girls. “A big thing is always going to scare us, even more if it matters too much to us,” he stopped smiling, it wasn’t immediate, but they noticed it anyway. “Sometimes you just need a break, and to relax,” he mumbled, the conversations with Gwen and Lance echoing in his head.

Freya tilted her head. “You are so genuine,” she whispered, maybe saying it to herself or it just came out like that; either way, it made Merlin smile again. “You really inspire me, beyond the way you write or the things you create,” she said louder. “There is something about the whole thing that makes me feel so connected—like Mithian said,” she turned at her and they smiled at each other, a gesture so natural it made Merlin ache for some reason. “I’m really glad I met you,” she smiled, all of her teeth showing, and Merlin resisted the urge to hug her.

“Thank you,” he told both of them as he left the carriage. “You’ve made my day.”

And from the way they smiled back at him, he probably did theirs as well.

* 

Merlin cracked one eye open and looked around his bedroom, expecting something to happen. He had barely slept, due to procrastinating online researching “how to write good” on google.

He watched every corner of his room before he straightened himself. He was being paranoid, that much he knew, but what could he say, his system was used to turning on the alert when Tuesday arrived.

He made sure to step with his right foot first and stood up, walking to the bathroom hesitantly. When he arrived, he turned on all of the faucets to check if he had water, and when he had proved that he had, he left only the shower ones on and proceeded to strip off.

He tried to bathe himself quickly, just in case, and jumped out of the shower just to find that he had forgotten to bring a towel. He groaned, running out naked just to grab the first thing he had near, which was a dirty shirt, before proceeded to change.

While drinking his terrible coffee and eating his burnt toast, he had made a decision.

He was going to try to live in the moment and _at night_ he would go out to _the_ pub—which was owned by Cenred, Gwaine’s cousin, who gave him free pints every time he saw him looking desperate—and he would watch people and draw inspiration from them.

It seemed like a perfect plan, except that it wasn’t, because he just couldn’t focus all damn day, instead logging into websites that claimed to give writing exercises to motivate his writing but that only made Merlin write terrible poems, and he didn’t even write poems, he’s a _novelist_ , for crying out loud.

He then counted and recounted how many hours he had slept the night before and tried to nap, only to find it impossible.

So when night came, Merlin was moody and desperate and really wanted an idea to punch him in the face.

*

He scowled at his drink, watching the room with disdain. There was absolutely nothing remotely interesting in this little pub. Even the alcohol wasn’t helping his imagination roll around and come up with _something_ at all. He was sure it had nothing to do with his sleep-deprivation—he’d been over that stage a long time ago, and discovered that not only did he work better at night, but that sleep-deprivation was just a state of mind. Or that was what he constantly told himself when he was wide awake at 5am typing furiously at his lovely computer and then breaking down, starting to yell at the air. Because that’s just normal behavior.

He kept searching for something, though. He looked up every time the little bell at the door rung and tried to make something out from the people that came in, but it didn’t work. He growled a little at his pint, swallowing it all in one gulp. He ran his hands through his hair anxiously and left it in a disheveled state, getting up in a rush and running to the loo to splash some water on his face and tell himself to _get a grip already and fucking write something_ while he stared at his reflection—wrecked, cheeks flushed red along with his nose, hair sticking up everywhere and eyes wild. If he were another person and watched himself like this, he would probably think he was about to kill someone. And Merlin felt like murdering someone, stomping out of the loo and making his way past the people, shoving them in his haste to get out. He reached the door in less than a minute and got hit by the cold air outside. He shivered, angrier, and tucked himself tighter in his coat, walking down the street and into the night.

He wasn’t expecting the blow to the head that followed, but then again, who would?

He felt the cold concrete hit the side of his face all of a sudden, teeth clattering violently inside his mouth, dazing him for a moment. When he got his focus back, he was already being pulled up by the neck of his shirt and shoved back against a wall, his head bumping against solid.

Before he could analyse what the fuck was happening, the same bloke shouted into his ear. “Give me everything you have!”, and Merlin wanted to reply, he really did, but all he could do was mumble something incoherent, resulting in another shove against the wall and there was really something very wrong with all of this. “I said, _give it to me_.”

For a second Merlin felt indignant with this person because he couldn’t ask things nicely, but then the bloke was running his hands over his chest and—whoa, what the hell—

“Stop with the bullshit, you little fuck,” he was saying as he searched for something in his pockets. “Give me everything you have or I swear I’ll—“

But Merlin never knew what it was that the guy was going to do, because next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor—again—because someone had pulled the crazy man away and was now kicking his gut pretty badly. If Merlin hadn’t been about to be debased he would actually feel bad for the angry guy.

He heard shouting but couldn’t place who was shouting at who, so he resumed into checking himself out, poking softly at his eye and squinting at the pain. He then breathed in and out a few times, relaxed, while there were some sobs in the background and someone saying “You can’t just assault people like that!” and “What the fuck is your problem, arsehole?!”

He moaned a little when he tried to stand up and fell on his bum. He tried to search for something to hold on to and stand up, but there was nothing around him. He sighed and stayed where he was, waiting for whoever had saved him to stop hitting the other bloke.

But that was rather quick, since after settling down on the floor, Merlin looked up to see a very knotted frown, very blonde hair, and a very blue pair of eyes.

It might have been the several blows, but for a moment Merlin thought he was in the presence of an angry angel.

“Are you okay, mate?” The crazy avenger said, offering him his hand, which Merlin took greedily. He wobbled as he stood up, grabbing his savior’s shoulder to steady himself. He still didn’t trust his mouth to make any coherent sound, and when he looked into the guy’s eyes— _very_ blue—he thought that he might look incredibly bad, for all he could see in the blonde was a scowl mixed with concern. “Maybe we should take you to a hospital,” he offered, taking his arm and grimacing when Merlin whimpered at the force. “My car is not far away, let’s go.”

Maybe Merlin’s brain was still in a very bad shape, because in any other situation he wouldn’t just go and get in a stranger’s car just because he was hit several times. But it’s not like it had happened often so he couldn’t really say. Still, he shouldn’t have been going along with some crazy bloke (because he had hurt the other guy pretty badly) just like that.

“I’m Arthur,” the man said when they were already on the way, and Merlin wanted to laugh at the irony. Wow, really? A knight in shining armor, coming right to his rescue, and his name is _Arthur_? Yeah, these things could only happen to him.

He began to feel worried about the state of his mouth when he tried to speak again and felt like his face was crumbling down. He moaned softly and Arthur turned, brow furrowed and jaw set. “We should be getting to the hospital pretty soon,” he announced, looking at the road like he wanted to punch it. And maybe he did, with all the anger he had shown earlier.

There was a part of Merlin’s head that told him that he shouldn’t feel turned on by this, but his body just didn’t agree.

*

The trees looked impossibly big, the essence of the forest wrapping around him like a warm blanket on a very cold night. He felt safe, in his element, as he moved around the nature with his King just a few inches behind.

"Merlin," the King was saying. "If we don't get to the clearing soon, I swear I won't care about you and your incredible powers, I'll rip your face to shreds."

"Why, so nice," Merlin muttered, walking past a big root. "If I recall, _you_ were the one that wanted to finish your stupid quest here, it's not my problem we got stuck in that hole."

"It was your fault!"

"Nevermind, we are going to get to the clearing soon, and then Kilgharrah will get us to the castle safe and sound, just hold on..."

As they reached the clearing, Merlin glanced back to grin at his stupid King, something like "I told you we weren't that far" rolling off his tongue already, but he stopped in his tracks when he realised that he was alone.

"Arthur?" He asked, looking in all directions, searching for the red cloak or the shining blonde hair, but there was nothing.

"Ha!" someone shouted from above him, and then someone fell right over him.

*

Merlin jumped and opened his eyes, wincing at the light that greeted him. The memory of what had just happened was fresh in his mind, and for a moment he felt unbalanced, like he wasn’t where he was supposed to be; the memory of the woods making it difficult to focus.

He lifted his head and turned it slowly around, looking for something that could give an explanation, but everything was foggy and didn’t make sense.

It wasn’t until he lay back down that he remembered.

He jolted up the bed, or rather, tried unsuccessfully to, and regretted it immediately. He shut his eyes and tried very hard not to cry out as the pain in his face reappeared. He didn’t want to examine himself, fearing the worst, so he cracked one eye open and really _looked_ around.

There was something wrong with the place, and it wasn’t just that he wasn’t in Camelot. He wasn’t in a hospital, either, which was just worst. Merlin tried to remember _what_ exactly had happened the night before, and how he had ended up in a place like _this_. He let himself examine the bed, the blankets, the pillows, and as he progressed, looking at the curtains and the furniture in the room, something in his belly sinked.

Oh, God.

 _Where_ was he? 

He placed his hands on each side of his face, cursing his stupid life and how everything was just being incredibly _surreal_ , and as he incorporated himself on the bed, the door opened, and the crazy golden guy entered the room.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” he said as he moved in Merlin’s direction, and wait, what was going on? He leaned in and smiled softly, averting his gaze. “I wasn’t sure if I should bring you breakfast; I have it ready, if you’d like. How are you feeling?”

“Who are you?” Merlin croaked out, and he knew it was rude, but _what the hell was going on?_

The man in question frowned and looked at him, and Merlin felt a tug at his chest.

“I’m Arthur,” he replied simply, as if that could cover the fact that Merlin had woken up in—apparently—his bed, and that he came in as if it were totally _normal_ and was about to give him _breakfast_ and—

“I saved you last night?” he provided, pouting. “You don’t remember?”

“I remember being assaulted, yes,” Merlin answered, untangling himself from the covers and attempting to stand up, but Arthur stood on the way. “I just—I don’t remember what happened later. Did we go to a hospital? Why am I not there now?”

“The doctor said you just needed a few stitches,” he nodded towards his face, at which Merlin touched softly and found that yes, there were a few sutures over his temple. “You only needed ice for the bruises but I still felt like you were dispatched really quickly,” he frowned, looking upset. “I decided to bring you here to keep an eye on you as you recovered.”

Merlin was this close to asking _why on earth would you do something like that?_ but then he remembered there were still a few people in the world who could possibly have manners and might not be thinking about killing you when you least expect it. Though it was a bit hard to give Arthur that sort of credit, because taking it from the way he attacked Merlin’s assaulter the night before, the blonde seemed to like punching people in the face, and Merlin really didn’t want to be punched in the face right now.

He bit his lip and regretted it instantly, for all it did was just _hurt_ , and he winced.

“You didn’t need to do that; I’m fine on my own,” which was an ugly, ugly lie because he could barely take care of himself. "I shouldn’t even have slept here, God,” and that was true, despite the fact that the covers were so soft and the setting was so nice but— _focus, Merlin!_ —he didn’t even _know_ this guy, and okay, maybe he was trying to be nice, but there was no need for that to continue now, right? He was fine and Arthur knew it, so there was really no need for him to stay there any longer without overstaying his welcome, so Merlin tried to stand up again.

“Wait,” Arthur said softly, placing a hand on Merlin’s chest. Merlin sucked in a breath without thinking; this guy really had the bluest eyes he had ever seen. He looked unsure, biting his lip, and there was no way he could be _blushing_ , was there? Arthur looked at his feet as he slowly moved his hand away.

Merlin looked at him expectantly, but Arthur didn’t say another word. “Is there…”

“Why are you doing this?” Arthur mumbled and Merlin raised an eyebrow.

“Doing what, exactly?”

The other man’s head snapped up and glared at him, the blue of his eyes so intense, it took Merlin aback. “You know,” he accused, and Merlin’s eyebrow went higher.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t?” He said, and okay, now Arthur wanted to punch _him_ , that was for sure, and Merlin really didn’t want to get punched. “Look,” he tried, jerking away from him. “I’m not sure what you think is happening, but if you don’t explain it to me, then how am I supposed to know?” he was walking backwards slowly, Arthur’s eyes following him, deep and calculating.

“Stop the crap, Merlin,” was his answer and Merlin’s blood went cold. How did he know his name? He desperately tried to remember the things that were with him when he was assaulted but he didn’t have any ID. He didn’t even have a wallet! He frowned and gaped at the man before him, the man that was slowly making his way towards him, the man that was now—wait, was he _hugging_ him?

“You’re such an idiot,” Arthur mumbled fondly against his ear and Merlin did _not_ shiver, nor his toes curl, nor his knees buckle. He was shocked, and pretty much confused, since this stranger was basically _squeezing_ him inside those big, muscled arms of his. Not to mention that the man had his head hidden in the crook of his neck, and Merlin was having a hard time trying to push the dude away. For a moment he wanted to hug him back but that didn’t make any sense, because they didn’t even _know_ each other, dammit, so he bit his lip—damn his pain—and pushed him away.

“Okay, man, this isn’t funny, what are you even—“

“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur said, and it’s so familiar, so full of emotion, that Merlin looked at him and mentally cursed at the sight. “Stop it,” he said again, but Merlin had no idea of what was he supposed to stop, nor why the stranger kept calling him by his name, and how the hell did he know it in the first place.

“Arthur,” he started, heading for the door.

“Stay for breakfast,” Arthur pleaded, taking his hand, to which Merlin jerked away like it was on fire.

“I don’t even know you!”

“Yes, you do! You stupid little shit, of course you know me! Stop the crap!” And he grabbed Merlin again, yanked him forward, circled his waist with his arm and pulled him close, Merlin letting out a choking sound. He placed his hands over his chest immediately and pushed himself away, running for the door. Okay, so Arthur wanted to kill him after all. Or maybe make him his pet and brainwash him and then kill him. Yeah, that seemed more likely.

For a brief moment Merlin wondered why the hell he didn’t go for crime novels instead. 

He yanked the door open and fled from the room, Arthur’s voice ringing in his ears.

“Merlin! _Merlin!_ ”

Merlin attempted to act like one would in a crime novel, running into the corridor, down the stairs and flying out of the house with the pursuer just behind him, his breath on his neck and his feet almost reaching Merlin’s.

He just missed the part where he had been beaten up pretty badly the day before and he apparently felt dizzy and he had been a clumsy guy in the first place, and so he tripped before he even made it to the stairs.

“ _Merlin!_ ” Arthur howled, reaching him and turning him around. Merlin found himself tucked inside Arthur’s arms again, and as he looked up to him he couldn’t help but lose his breath for a moment—the man was _gorgeous_.

Why do serial killers always have to be gorgeous?

“Don’t do that!” Arthur shouted, angry, breaking the moment, only to create it once more by hiding his face in Merlin’s neck. “Don’t run away from me,” he mumbled there and it reverberated through Merlin’s soul. What the hell was happening?

He shuddered and tried to push him away. “Stop it!”

Arthur, surprisingly, did so, letting go of him and watching him stand up. Merlin felt dizzy again, especially under the examining stare the blonde was giving him, and it wasn’t like he could just _not_ blush in that situation.

He found himself at a loss of what to do: he was no longer in the situation in which he felt he had to run away, yet he thought that that would be the best thing to do. Arthur looked sad now, and Merlin scowled.

“Look, you can’t expect me to be okay with you acting like that. I mean, alright, you rescued me from that thief, thank you,” he said, marking the ‘thank you’ with a bow of his head. “It was very nice of you, and you really didn’t need to go to so much bother by bringing me here, but thank you anyway,” he bit his lip and felt another shudder when he saw Arthur fixing his eyes there. “But I’m not sure what you’re expecting me to do now? Like—how do you even know my name?” he accused instead, folding his arms.

“You don’t remember,” Arthur said instead, his tone full of disbelief. “I can’t believe—you don’t _remember_ ,” he stood up, and Merlin stepped backwards instinctively. Arthur laughed, but it wasn’t an amused laugh, it was more of someone in shock. “Oh, God, you don’t. How can you not? You’ve been writing about us!”

Merlin blinked at the man before him.

“Excuse me?” he croaked out. “What do you mean ‘writing about us’?”

Arthur shook his head. “This is unbelievable,” he took another step forward. “Yes, it might have taken some time for me to remember, but you’ve published books with _our_ adventures, our _actual_ adventures,” he shook his head some more, looking puzzled. “How can you write about it without remembering?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand. You’re saying my books are about us?” Arthur didn’t reply, just kept looking at him with a puzzled expression. “My books. You’ve read my books,” it was more a statement than a question, and Arthur broke eye contact to stare at his shoes. “Oh, God. You’re a fan, aren’t you? Wait, you think the books are about us? How? I don’t even know you!”

“Yes, you do,” he replied, still looking at his feet. “I—I don’t know how to explain it without sounding weird,” he started, entwining his fingers in his hands. “But we’ve lived in another time? Like, we’re both from the past—oh, nevermind.” He looked up, fierce, and Merlin held his breath without meaning to. “You’re Merlin, the Ancient, legend Merlin, and I’m Arthur, as in legend King Arthur. We have lived together in the past.”

Merlin stared into this gorgeous man’s eyes, blinked once, twice, and burst into laughter.

“Right, and you’ve got Excalibur at your belt and everything, oh, my God,” he laughed some more, resting his hand over Arthur’s shoulder. “Oh, man. And you’re so serious about it!” his laughter died when he met the other man’s glare. Merlin frowned. “Wait, are you being serious about it? _What?_ ”

There was something about the posture, or the glare, or the pout that seemed oddly familiar, and Merlin’s head was spinning. He couldn’t be serious, that’s ridiculous. You don’t go and tell someone that you’ve lived together in another life! And of course you don’t say that you were _King Arthur_ and _Merlin_! That’s just stupid! And mental! What was he thinking?!

He told him as much and turned around, shaking his head and making his way down the stairs. He thought Arthur would follow him again, but he didn’t. As he reached the floor, he turned and watched him staring again. He had his arms folded and looked determined.

Merlin got angry for some reason and stomped out of the house.

*

“Oh, look at him, he’d make quite a sale,” someone said, his voice deep and rough. The place smelled of alcohol and it took Merlin a second to register that he couldn’t see a thing. His hands tried to reach up to his face, but there was something holding them down. Someone laughed.

“Oi! He woke up!”

More laughter. Merlin was lifted up and felt a big calloused hand touching him _everywhere_.

“Arthur!” he yelled, and then there was more laughter.

“He’s not here, sweetheart,” the man closer to him said. “You did well bringing him here, we’ve all been dying to get a glimpse of the King of Camelot,” they all broke into laughter.

“It was quite simple, though,” another one added, his voice younger than the other man. Merlin gritted his teeth. “None of you were expecting us.”

“Where is he?” Merlin asked, feeling the anger boiling up in his veins. His magic was just about to explode; he tried to channel it to find Arthur.

“He’s not here,” another man repeated, sardonically. They all laughed again, and it was making Merlin sick.

He wasn’t there, they weren’t lying. But Merlin found him nonetheless—he was close, closer than he imagined. He bit his tongue and his magic flared, making his eyes golden and releasing his hands.

They stopped laughing when Merlin tore the blindfold out of his eyes, still golden, and let his magic explode, sending them backwards. He only had a moment to acknowledge his surroundings before an enormous man towered before him, raising his hand. Merlin ducked to avoid the blow and spit out a curse, making the man fall at his feet. He then turned and faced another bunch of big brutes that were just rising from the where they had landed when Merlin first attacked. He punched the closest one and stretched out his hand to freeze the others. He ran before any of them could do anything and sealed the entrance, focusing again on Arthur and his whereabouts.

*

Merlin reached out his hand and searched for the little notebook he always kept at his bedside table, throwing some things off of it before finding it. He sat up and basically tore the table upside down to find a pencil, and then threw himself at the ground and started writing furiously on the thing before the image went away. He didn’t look at the clock until he was finished, and even then, he only climbed up to the bed and tucked the notebook in his chest, falling asleep immediately.


	2. The Saviour

Thursdays were now Merlin’s favorite day in the entire world.

Ever since that dream crept inside his head, there had been nothing but ideas flowing out of him. It was as if he had taken a pill to cure all illnesses and he was now back on the road, typing like there was no tomorrow.

It was insane, the way everything just kept flowing and flowing out of him. His imagination had widened considerably and he was now so connected to what he was writing that he completely lost track of time and just kept going, letting himself drown in the incredible images, emotions and adventures that were spinning in his head.

He reached a considerable amount of words by the end of the week, and felt completely relaxed when Nimueh contacted him to check on him. She said there wasn’t enough words, which she always said anyway, but congratulated him on his progress and reminded him to check on Gaius, his editor, too - which he did. After those affairs were resolved, he finished a scene that had been nagging at his brain and saved the document. He re-read what he had written and once again, found himself immersed in his own words.

He was watching everything as if he had been there, and maybe it was because he’d been sleep deprived again, but he couldn’t help but picture Arthur as the King while he read.

He laughed—in his haste to get things done, he had forgotten about the blonde bloke who had saved him in that alley back on Tuesday. It was such a pity that someone as handsome as he had been so nuts. Merlin was lamenting this when another thought crossed his head.

He did look a lot like the imaginary version he had envisioned of the King. Maybe it was a bit more romanticized in his head, like a blurry image to which he added unnecessary details, but now that he had _seen_ someone so _real_ as Arthur, the image was crystal clear.

This was unbelievable. He was pondering on the fact that _he_ was a reincarnated figure! He laughed again.

“That’s it, bedtime for Merlin,” he announced as he closed the document and turned off his computer, standing up and going to his bedroom. He let himself fall into the bed with the same clothes that he had worn during the day (which hadn’t changed in a few days, and were still his pyjamas, so it was okay) and let sleep find him, already planning out another conflict for his characters.

*

Days were passing by pretty quickly, and before he realized it, the day of Elena’s wedding had arrived.

He freaked out when he realised that it was a Tuesday, and tried not to let it show when Lance picked him up from his flat (and also tried not to swoon at the sight). They were picking up Gwen next, and for a brief moment Merlin feared that something would go wrong, like the car engine would break down or that Gwen’s dress would be stained and they would have to wait and then they would be late and it’s not like Elena _minds_ about those things, but still.

“Merlin, stop thinking, please; it’s just a day,” Lance had parked outside Gwen’s home and they were now waiting. “Besides, haven’t you been writing on Tuesdays too? Nothing bad has happened, right?”

Merlin scowled. “Not exactly, but that’s because I was glued to the computer. I’m sure that if I had showered or something the water would have been cold or it wouldn’t have come down at all,” he folded his arms and looked across the street into Gwen’s house. “And it’s not like I’m thinking something bad will happen,” he pointed out, still looking away. “It’s just—who marries on a Tuesday?”

“Rich people,” Lance answered, and then his face broke into a smile when he saw Gwen walking through the door. She looked magnificent, to say the least. Merlin had to bite down something when he saw her beam at Lance as he exited the car in a hurry to open the door for her.

Nothing bad happened on the way, and they arrived at the chapel just in time. Gwaine caught his eye and winked, and Merlin couldn’t help but grin at him. They settled at the middle of the church and sat down, waiting for the ceremony to start. Merlin was looking at the chandeliers and praying for them not to fall down when there was a rush of movement at the altar, so he fixed his attention there and _froze_.

His eyes were probably lying to him, because there was no way in earth _Arthur_ was talking to Gwaine and _laughing_ with him.

He didn’t have much time to react because the music started playing and everyone turned around to see Elena walking down the aisle.

There was an orchestra piled up at the corner of the church, taking quite a lot of space but it didn’t matter—as the first notes of Pachelbel's Canon in D started playing, everybody fell silent. It was a magical sight, and Merlin wondered for a moment if lighting effects were being used, because the halo of light surrounding Elena, who was still standing at the door, looked too ideal. She was beaming, and that seemed to shine more than the entire universe at that moment.

She took a step forward and it looked like she was floating, her iron-grip on her father’s arm being just a secondary thing; there was nothing wrong happening, she wasn’t tripping down, her eyes were still shining, the illusion wasn’t breaking.

Merlin dared look at the altar and felt his stomach flop at the intensity of the two men’s gazes. Gwaine looked as if he had just found Paradise and Arthur—Merlin’s heart started beating way too fast for a quiet ceremony like this—Arthur looked magnificent. On top of his already graceful features, the way he was looking at Elena was breathtaking. He was _glowing_ , just as Elena was, and Merlin couldn’t understand if that was a thing his brain was making up or if it was literally happening—either way, it made him feel like a moth to a flame, so he looked away and tried to focus on Elena, who was now reaching the altar.

Despite his attempts, he couldn’t tear his eyes off of Arthur the entire ceremony. He was religiously following every single thing the man did, which wasn’t good at all. No, because the man was crazy. He had to tell himself that every time he saw him smiling softly at the couple before him.

There was a point in which he had to repeat it like a mantra, because looking at him was unbearable, but he just couldn’t tear his eyes away. Merlin’s hands were fisted, and his jaw clenched. How could someone he barely knew (who was _crazy_ ) affect him like this? He’d been attracted to people before, but that had never made him feel the way he was feeling while he looked at Arthur fumbling with his feet, or looking distractedly at his hands, or smiling wistfully when Gwaine held Elena’s hand. Merlin’s head was spinning, he wanted to run away again, this couldn’t be. The things he was feeling weren’t natural.

He was scared.

But then when Gwaine and Elena were proclaimed husband and wife, the world stopped. Arthur’s eyes met his and oxygen no longer existed. He felt the strongest pull at his chest, a wire of energy running from head to toe, curling at his toes and sweating his palms.

Arthur smirked at him, and Merlin felt the world swallow him completely.

*

He was still in denial by the time they arrived at the reception. Lance had gotten them all drinks and was now making cow eyes at Gwen, who was just as immersed in the task as he, so they didn’t notice the way Merlin was fidgeting in his seat nor how he was looking around anxiously. They wouldn’t mind if they did, anyway. They’d probably think it was because of the Tuesday thing.

Which reminded him that it was Tuesday so _of course_ something like this would happen. He bit back a response to Lance previous comment because he wouldn’t understand it at all and also because if he did, he’d have to explain the _Arthur_ situation, which was something Merlin didn’t even want to think about—even though he was in fact thinking about it.

He scolded himself and took a sip of wine. If he was condemned to suffer through this damn party he might as well be intoxicated enough for it. He knew Gwaine would probably make him swallow an entire barrel of beer in the near future, so he told himself he was “practicing” and swallowed more of the whiskey Lance had managed to sneak into their cups.

He tapped his foot anxiously and looked around again, _not_ searching for Arthur but for something to entertain himself with, since the newlyweds were nowhere to be seen.

But then of course Arthur came into the picture, looking radiant, shaking hands with people Merlin didn’t know and embracing others. He seemed to be in a very good mood, and for one second Merlin wondered who the hell Arthur _was_ , because basically _everyone_ knew him. He was about to ask Gwen this when Gwaine and Elena arrived to their party and everyone cheered and stood up to welcome them. They looked like movie stars, all smiles and embracing people. Merlin vowed to make his proper congratulations later, when the fuzz decreased.

It took a while for that to happen, as people gathered together for pictures and more hugs and kisses; there were a few old ladies crying and holding Elena’s face between their hands, saying things that made her laugh. She had always had a bubbly laugh—the first time Merlin met her they both tripped down (not at the same time, though it would’ve been a little less awkward than walking and falling with two seconds of difference) and she laughed out loud, throwing her head backwards and shutting her eyes, enjoying the moment.

She was doing that now, as the old lady’s hands traded Elena’s face for Arthur’s.

He looked gently at the woman before him, and for a brief moment, Merlin wished he could be near enough to eavesdrop, because Arthur was listening intently to whatever the woman said, and then he raised his eyes and met his again. Merlin skipped a breath and tore his eyes away. What the hell was he doing, anyway?

He decided to leave it at that and try to engage in conversation with his friends, but when that proved to be impossible, Merlin stood up and resolved into going to congratulate the married couple by himself (though he still didn’t understand where he had gotten the courage to go without Gwen, who was his primary link to them in the first place).

Merlin tried to play it cool and pretend he wasn’t feeling extremely nervous about going in Arthur’s direction, because the godamned guy was still standing next to Elena, and now Merlin was thinking what a horrible idea this was, and as he attempted to turn casually and run away, he heard a shout.

“Merlin!” it was Elena, who was beaming at him. “It’s been so long!”

She was two feet from him in an instant, despite the oddly shaped dress she was wearing, and draped her arms around his shoulders in a graceful manner. Merlin made a strangled noise as she squeezed him in her arms and nuzzled her cheek with his. “I’m so glad you’re here!” she squealed, letting him go with a soft peck on the cheek. Her eyes were shining—everything about her was shining.

Merlin couldn’t help but feel happy for her, and so he let Gwaine bear-hug him tight too and smiled at them both. “I’m happy you invited me,” he said, patting Gwaine’s shoulder after he released him. “Congratulations,” he felt his cheeks coloring. “I wish you the very best.”

They both jumped at him and tucked him in their arms, spinning him around until they were facing Arthur, who had his arms folded and an amused expression on his face. When Elena caught sight of him, she jolted and turned around.

“How stupid!” she said, laughing. “I haven’t introduced you two yet!” she grabbed Merlin’s arm and yanked him forward, giggling. Every bit of Merlin was internally screaming _stop!_ but there was nothing to be done; Arthur had raised his chin and the corners of his lips quirked up.

“Merlin, this is my brother, Arthur.” Elena smiled and Merlin froze. _What?!_ “He’s been incredibly interested in meeting you,” she flashed Arthur a sly smile, making him scowl. He looked so different here, Merlin noted. It was a completely different side of him—not that Merlin knew that much about him anyway. Wait, did she just say that he’d been wanting to meet him? “He doesn’t admit it, but he found my copy of that first book of yours and he might or might not have bought the entire collection,” she winked now, her smile spreading—if that was possible at all—and Gwaine laughed.

“He can’t stop talking about them!” he said, palming Arthur’s back and purposely missing the glare the blonde sent him. “When he knew Elena knew you, oh, Merlin, you should’ve seen his face. And the way he pleaded for a meeting!”

“Shut up, Gwaine.” Arthur bit out through his teeth. His cheeks were a little pink, and Merlin’s heart fluttered—wait, no. It didn’t _flutter_ , that’s stupid. “I feel like they’re creating the wrong image for you,” he said next, his blue eyes piercing through Merlin’s.

“I can imagine.” He retorted, narrowing his eyes. Poor Elena, she probably had no idea her brother was insane. Merlin had to give him credit for looking so composed in public—but that only made him more dangerous, he thought. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Arthur,” saying his name tasted funny in his tongue. It was almost familiar, yet new; Merlin scowled because he _couldn’t_ be thinking about those stupid things again! He bowed his head in a semi-mocking manner (because Elena does look magnificent and he feels as he must do something inferior-like about it) and turned on his heels, praying to whatever God might be listening to _please let me escape now_.

“Wait!” Elena cried. “You two should talk!” she looked from one to the other, and there was a split second after meeting Arthur’s eyes again in which the man looked hurt, but it was gone as soon as it came. Merlin sighed and forced a smile.

“I wouldn’t want to impose, you seem to be busy so I’m just—“

“I’m not,” Arthur answered in a breath. “Busy, I mean.”

Merlin forced another smile.

“My friends are waiting for me.”

“Who? The couple that was sitting with you? They’ve been gone for five minutes now,” Merlin’s head spun abruptly, searching for his friends, and realized that Arthur was right. The bastards.

He sighed.

“I don’t know what you wish to discuss with me, but I’m sure it can wait,” his smile looked forced, he knew; he knew he probably looked _and_ sounded like an ass, but he wasn’t going to go who-knows-where with the crazy man that thinks they’re both from the past.

Arthur’s eyes flared with the same intensity they had when Merlin was at his house.

“I’m afraid not, it can’t wait,” he replied with the same condescending tone Merlin had used before. He stepped forward and placed one big, warm hand on the back of his neck and Merlin jerked away at the touch. Arthur didn’t seem to mind—only that his eyes flared again, but that was probably because the lighting in that place was too intense—and took his arm and pulled him along.

“Hey!” Merlin protested, but no one seemed to care.

*

“What the hell?” Merlin spat when they were outside, yanking his arm free from Arthur’s grip. He turned and glared at him, crossing his arms and keeping as much distance as possible—even though his body didn’t really want him to.

_Focus, Merlin!_

He looked at Arthur expectantly, waiting for a response, but found himself staring at his features instead. He couldn’t help but compare the image to his own personal picture of the King, and frowned. There _were_ different things—like the nose, the King’s nose was broken, most likely from fighting, and so it curved slightly to the left, while Arthur’s nose was perfect, untouched. His teeth were different too—the King had crooked, yellow teeth, whilst Arthur had a perfect row of white teeth. His pout was the same though, as well as the blonde of his hair and the set of his jaw. His eyes were bluer than Merlin had previously imagined, and his body was a little slimmer than the King’s, probably because Arthur didn’t have to fight epic battles with barbarians and enemies to the Crown.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. For a brief moment an odd thing happened, and it was as if he was in Camelot, his King folding his arms and frowning at him—an image too familiar, too personal, overlaid with this image of Arthur, folded arms as well, frowning too. It made him want to vomit.

“What do you want?” he squawked, resting his hand over the top of the balcony, feeling dizzy.

“Just to be listened to,” Merlin made a face at that and rolled his eyes, which wasn’t a good idea because he was feeling incredibly unsteady.

“Arthur, there is _no way_ we were—“

“Just listen, okay?” Arthur pleaded and Merlin closed his eyes, exhaling a deep breath.

“I still don’t see how this is a plausible thing, but go on,” he waved his hand and clutched at his stomach with the other.

“Are you okay?” Arthur was hovering around him now, and pardon, personal space? Merlin pushed him away and groaned.

“Yes, just get on with it!”

Arthur stared at him for a brief moment, as if calculating his words, and rested his lower back on the edge of the balcony.

“I’m not here to repeat what I said,” he started, and Merlin frowned. “At least—not now. I understand it’s hard to get, and it sounds ridiculous, but I’m not lying, Merlin.” He looked at him with an insistent look. “I’ve always felt like there was something missing, but never could place my finger on it,” he stopped looking at him and stared into space. “I’ve always had whatever I wanted, and yet, there was _something_ —“ he frowned at the night and pouted. “You heard Elena, I found her copy of your book and took it, but I never thought I would actually read it,” he smiled softly. “until I couldn’t ignore it. It was as if it was calling me, I don’t know how to express it.” He locked eyes with Merlin again, and the latter felt his heart start to race. “When I started reading, I started remembering. Your books made me remember, Merlin. Because it’s _truth_. At first I thought I was hallucinating, because I could remember the way I _felt_ in those moments, I could sense them as if I were still there. It was too much for me, I wasn’t ready,” he looked at the floor now, and Merlin couldn’t move from his spot. “I kept putting it away,” he murmured, barely audible. He then ran a hand through his hair and smiled ruefully at him. “Don’t get me wrong, the writing is great, but every time I touched the book, a memory flashed in my head, and I was scared I had lost my mind,” Merlin snorted, which made Arthur’s face break into a smile.

“At one point I decided to see if it was my head the one making things up and bought other books, read bits from them, and waited for my memories, but they never came. I kept wondering then why I reacted the way I did with your book, so I tried researching.”

“How can you possibly research something like that?” Merlin smiled, and Arthur’s cheeks flushed pink. If his eyes lingered on Merlin’s mouth, Merlin decided to ignore it.

“It took a while, and a few nights without sleep, since everything I came up with were books about memories and Alzheimer,” he scooted closer to him, and Merlin couldn’t help but still. Arthur looked away, trying for nonchalant. “I had to call a few people who wouldn’t think I was insane.”

“Did it work?”

“Of course not, they all wanted me to go to a psychologist.” Merlin laughed out loud, stealing a smile from Arthur. “I did go to one, I confess,” he drew near again, slowly. “And he was very helpful. He suggested that I finish the book and see what happened—it turned out I ended up remembering a life in another time, when I was a King. Which is ridiculous,” he was very close to Merlin now, looming over him. “I bought the rest of the books and finished them in less than two days,” Merlin actually raised his eyebrows at that, and Arthur smirked, his face inches away from Merlin’s. “They’re really good,” he whispered, putting a hand across from him, which only made them closer.

Merlin bit his lip.

“You think? I see you’re a good storyteller as well,” he whispered back, leaning just a little bit forward, watching Arthur’s Adam apple bobble as he swallowed.

“Do you still think I’m lying?” they were ridiculously close now, lips ghosting over lips, and Merlin’s mind was on fire, already fallen for what seemed to be the perfect trap.

Then he snapped back to reality.

“I still don’t get why I get to be _the_ Merlin in this scenario of yours,” he pushed him away, suddenly aware of the things that were happening and his head started spinning out of control again. “If you had a revelation with my books, that’s, er, good, I think, but,” he shook his head, trying to clear it. “that doesn’t explain me being _that_ Merlin, and why you’re obsessed with me.”

“I’m not obsessed with you,” Arthur replied, clearly upset about his move having gone wrong. “I just want you to understand—“

“ _What_ , Arthur? What exactly do you want me to understand?” his head was hurting now—he ran his hands through his face and down his hair.

Arthur fell silent for a moment, and Merlin looked at him. His head was just getting worse, and he was hallucinating, he knew—flashes of the King’s chambers appeared and disappeared around them. Arthur dressed in chainmail and then back in his tuxedo. Himself, carrying dishes and buckets of water, _feeling_ their weight—Merlin shook his head weakly, or at least he thought he did.

Arthur’s mouth was moving, he was closer now. His words didn’t quite reach Merlin’s ears, so he just stared dumbfounded at Arthur’s mouth, feeling a little offended at how different it was from the King’s—but no, it wasn’t. The lips were the same. He was sure his tongue was as well.

His tongue—another horde of thoughts crashed inside his head, so intense it took Merlin aback. He closed his eyes and breathed in and out, while his mind reeled on the memories of another time, another setting, with the tongue in question exploring his mouth, his neck, every inch of his body and soul.

He was sure he was going to faint.

“Merlin!” Arthur had taken his face between his hands and was looking intently into his eyes. “Merlin,” he repeated, pleading, and Merlin jumped.

“Don’t touch me,” he snarled and took a step back. Arthur _still_ tried to reach out to him, but Merlin spat his hands away from him.

"You're remembering, aren't you?" He said slowly, and Merlin had a sudden urge to punch him.

"Stop it!" he cried, pressing his fingers to his right temple. He took another step back and tried to remember if there had been any opportunity in which Arthur could've poison him, because the feeling was becoming rather unbearable. He remembered the whiskey and laughed.

He was drunk! Of course he was, and all the things Arthur was saying, all the things he was doing, were affecting Merlin's creativity, not _triggering_ false memories!

Arthur _was_ dangerous, he concluded, trying his best to step away from the man without him following _again_.

Arthur was shaking his head again, as if Merlin was the problem here. Merlin _really_ wanted to punch him now, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists. He felt angry, really angry at this guy, who was so obviously taking advantage of him, and before his back could hit the wall he pushed past him and stormed into the party.

"I'm not feeling well," he told Gwen and Lance when he arrived at their table, fuming. He got a big angrier, if that was possible, when he caught the disheveled clothes, Lance's ruffled hair and Gwen's touch up—or rather, her fail attempt to cover the mess they'd done. "I'm gonna head back home, try to sleep or something," he was going to write, oh, he was definitely going to write. If Arthur was supposedly his number one fan, he wouldn't mind his alter-ego's fate tonight. “Tell Gwaine and Elena I had to go.”

He ignored the looks his friends cast him, and before Arthur could find him, he escaped.

*

> Merlin felt a pang of guilt at the base of his stomach, but refused to let it show. He could see Arthur’s back from this angle, a few steps ahead of him. Merlin clutched at the torch as the King bent down to get inside the cave. They’ve been going like this, up and down through the impossibly large road, and Merlin felt the walls closing in on them every time they walked further and further into the caves. He tried to avoid looking around, but eventually they found them.

Merlin was thumping at the keys viciously, knowing he would regret doing this and that it wouldn’t even make sense but telling himself at the same time that he’d find a way to make it work.

He adjusted the screen angle and kept typing furiously.

> The arms that held him and passed him around the group of bandits were strong, and as he glanced towards his companion, he could see him fighting already. The tangle of limbs as they fought was messy, and Merlin lost sight of him for a moment. Then he was being thrown in front of the biggest man of them all, and he heard Arthur roar behind him.
> 
> “Merlin, would you mind?!”
> 
> He knew Arthur meant his magic. Merlin looked up and down at the man before him and clenched his fists.
> 
> The man smiled.

Merlin’s mind was spinning again. He was once again picturing everything in his head, making everything go haywire. Arthur fighting, sweat dripping down his face and his neck. His roars, the dizziness of the moment. Merlin, cornered in the midst of a group of men. He could even _feel_ the air and smell the scents of blood and alcohol those men emanated. He felt sick.

Arthur. _Arthur_.

No, this was wrong.

He closed his eyes and focused, hitting the keyboard again.

> Merlin hesitated for a moment, and that moment was all it took for them to strike. The guilt grew in his gut, and he couldn’t help but look at Arthur again. He was looking intently at him, and before Merlin could grasp the meaning of that look, a huge man ran behind him and—

Merlin groaned, hiding his face in his hands.

The entire scene was _wrong_.

He wasn’t feeling it anymore. His head was going somewhere else, somewhere where _Merlin_ kicked everyone away, saving the day like he always does. But Merlin didn’t want that. He was angry, angry at himself, angry at Arthur and his existence and the fact that he couldn’t stop picturing him as the King, and he _wanted_ his Arthur to fall, if only for a moment. Just to see what would happen.

But _no_ , it wasn’t right. He knew it wasn’t. He was hating everything and groaning again when Arthur came back to his mind with his tuxedo, echoing his words and the ridiculousness of them. He remembered his breath on his face, the way that felt so _right_ and yet he pushed him away, because no, it was _not_ right, no matter what his lonely groin said.

He groaned again, letting himself fall down in his chair. Why was it so complicated? The man was crazy, that was it. He didn’t need to be thinking about him, let alone _picturing him as his main character_.

This was wrong in so many levels.

He stared at what he had written so far and, with a sigh, pressed the back key.

*

This wasn’t good. Merlin had been writing with extreme ease after that little dispute in his head, and he’d advanced significantly in his book, but there was just _something_ upsetting him. Something other than the fact that he was now picturing things more and more vividly, and that Arthur was now basically the King.

He’d been hiding in his apartment, content with the knowledge that Gwaine and Elena were on their honeymoon, so Arthur couldn’t ask them about him, nor get his phone number or anything. Still, he felt a little sad that he wasn’t making any effort. Not that Merlin wanted him to, but it just didn’t click with him. If Arthur was so crazy, he should’ve made a move already, shouldn’t he?

He was definitely not thinking this because _Merlin_ wanted to see him. Because he doesn’t fall for crazy people, he doesn’t. Not even if they are constantly featured in his dreams wearing chainmail and pressing kisses to every bit of his body.

He's losing his mind, he’s sure.

*

It was another Tuesday when he decided to call Gwen.

He tried to avoid the unnecessary questions about his whereabouts the whole week and instead went straight to the point.

“Do you know Elena’s brother, Arthur?” he didn’t mean to sound so desperate, but he couldn’t help it.

“Um, yes, I do,” she paused. “He’s a bit awkward, actually,” Merlin could hear movement through the device, Gwen was probably busy.

“Is he?” he said, nonchalantly, picking up his pen from his desk and trying to act casual—though no one was watching him. “It’s just, well, that day at the wedding, he helped me out,” _lies_. “and I was thinking about saying thanks and all, so yeah. Do you have his number or something?”

Okay, this was bad.

But he wasn’t thinking about that, no. He was still holding the pen just above his nose, and was pondering using it as a mustache, when Gwen’s voice rang through his mobile.

“How did he help you?” Merlin made a face and placed the pen between his nose and his mouth, pouting so it could hold still.

“He just did,” he said after it fell down. “Do you have his number?”

Gwen sighed. “No, but maybe Lance does, after Gwaine introduced the two they have become rather inseparable,” she sounded whiny about it, which was stupid because Lance spent his entire life worshipping her and doing as she said. Merlin saved his comments to himself.

He thanked her and hung up, dialing up Lance’s number when his mobile started vibrating. The screen changed and it showed an unknown number, and thinking it was probably Will with another big tale that somehow landed him in jail, Merlin picked up.

“Hello?”

“Merlin?” He froze. This was unbelievable. “Um, is this Merlin Emrys’ phone?”

“Uh, yes! Yes, it is!” he said a bit too enthusiastic. “How did you get my number?”

“I called Lance,” Arthur replied, sounding small. “I didn’t know if you wanted to talk to me, and I thought you needed some time. Er, do you still need time?”

Merlin smiled in spite of himself. “Well, I still think you’re crazy.”

“I know,” Arthur breathed, making Merlin melt a little.

“And I don’t know if I should trust you.”

“You should.” Merlin laughed, getting up and going to the kitchen. “I’m not lying.” Arthur insisted.

“Are we going to have the _same_ conversation over the phone? Man, I thought you had some imagination, at least take me out or something,” Merlin bit his lip when he reached the fridge, leaning against it. His pulse was maddening, and he had no idea of what he was doing. Was he really asking Arthur out?

Arthur must’ve been pondering the same, because it took him a while to answer. “Not if you run away again,” he said, making guilt grow at the pit of Merlin’s stomach.

“You can’t blame me for doing so,” he hummed, scratching at the fridge’s door. “You should’ve listened to yourself. Very convincing, but still crazy.”

“Does that mean you’ll run away from me again?”

“Does that mean you’ll go out with me?”

“Don’t do this, Merlin,” Arthur said, suddenly serious, and Merlin’s blood went cold. “Don’t play with me. I get it that you can’t get used to the idea yet, but don’t mess me around while you figure it out. I want this to be serious.”

“And what exactly is _this_?” he asked, feeling a little breathless.

Arthur sighed.

“You should’ve remembered something by now. Even if your idiotic self is trying to shut it down, there _are_ things you remember, aren’t there?” he sounded desperate. Merlin bit his lip again.

“Meet me for coffee,” he said instead, and Arthur groaned.

“Don’t change the subject!”

“I’m not changing it! It’s just,” he closed his eyes, already feeling the blush coloring his cheeks. “I want to see you—for this, to discuss this. I want to see you to, um, talk about this.”

“I don’t understand you,” Arthur replied, a little accepting, though hesitantly. Merlin straightened himself from the fridge and waited, his heart thumping. Arthur sighed again. “But okay, tell me where to meet you.”

Merlin’s heart fluttered.

*

He was still thinking he was an idiot by the time Arthur got inside the room. Merlin couldn’t help but gape at the man as he made his way towards him. It was beyond his looks, or the way his presence just silenced the entire world—there was something about him, something so familiar it made Merlin ache and know that no, this meeting wasn’t a bad idea.

He was nervous, Merlin noted. They both smiled awkwardly at the other before Arthur took a seat before him, the silence stretching to an unbearable point.

“Okay,” Merlin said, breaking the lull and leaning in, just a little bit, startling Arthur—who hadn’t spent the entire time staring at him. “Okay,” he repeated, lower, to himself, gaining strength. “I am a writer. I have a lot of imagination,” he started. “I can create an entire story about an apple if I’m inspired,” he said, and Arthur frowned. “I tend to overreact about a lot of things, and I always think before I do anything.” He looked down at his hands. “It’s not that I don’t believe in you—it’s just that it’s,” he laughed, “it’s like a _fairytale_. You, coming from nowhere, telling me that you’re my King and I’m your Wizard,” he looked up, bashful, and met Arthur’s gaze. “I _want_ to believe in you, really,” Arthur was looking at him so intently it was making it difficult to focus. “But I don’t know how—I don’t know if this is just another crazy thing my mind made up.” He looked down again, frustrated, and jumped when Arthur’s hands reached out to hold his.

Merlin lost himself on the blue of his eyes, the warm of his hands, and for a brief moment he wanted to cry. “I’m real,” Arthur said, too soft, too gentle, and Merlin was about to burst into tears.

The little squeeze Arthur gave to reassure his statement seemed to be good enough for him to continue. “I know.” Merlin breathed, gaping a little at how _intense_ this little gesture felt. “I do remember things,” he croaked out, his eyes watering without his consent. “But I can’t tell if they’re my imagination or if they’re real,” he sobbed, letting go of one hand to cover his face. Meeting here was a bad idea. Now everyone would see him crying.

Arthur’s other hand was gone in a flash, and Merlin panicked that it had indeed been a dream. But then Arthur’s body collapsed against his, holding him so dearly it made him cry harder.

He hid his face in the crook of Arthur’s neck and circled his arms around him, feeling protected, safe, _at home_. Arthur rubbed at his back softly, and it didn’t matter that they were in a public place. He had his King to protect him.

He turned his face towards Arthur’s and touched his face experimentally, feeling the heat of it and the texture. Arthur’s breath was ragged on his face, and his eyes were shining with tears. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered against his lips, and Merlin didn’t think, he just crashed his mouth against Arthur’s, taking hold of his face with his hands, and Arthur replied instantly, pressing his body tighter against his.

In less than a second, Merlin’s mind crashed. It was like an explosion, releasing so many things at once, overloading his capacity and making him numb. He remembered everything and nothing. It was as if nothing had happened, just as normal as waking up; all his senses bloomed, and he felt it, the magic that entwined him with Arthur. One soul in two bodies—two sides of a coin.

He pulled apart from Arthur and smiled so much it hurt, but it didn’t matter.

Everything made sense now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all the angels that made this happen<333


End file.
